e eased himself up onto the desk, the tip of one shoe braced against the floor, the other leg dangling easy. He crossed his arms – looked away, toward the fire. No. He shifted; wincing at his hip, he eased himself back off the desk, made to move toward the window, and paused. Behind the desk, then? More official, more businesslike; more authoritative. All the same, standing at the window meant standing with his back to the door, and there seemed something almost petulant in it. Disrespectful.
He didn’t think there was much chance, anywhere he stood, of feeling good about this.
Snow whirled down outside, for the second day in a row. Even at midday, a thin blanket lay over the streets, lined the crooked gestures of the bare-branched trees in white.
Dentis had struck Vienda hard and brittle. The window-panes were a frost-framed glimpse into misty white. The light that crept through the misted glass was weak and filtering; the heavy green drapes were half-drawn to keep the chill from crawling in. The study was aglow with soft gold phosphor, a fire crackling in the grate, but he could feel it in all the familiar-unfamiliar aches.
He had meditated all morning. The floorboards had been cold, then, underneath his bare feet and hands; the books had been cold.
The warmth had leached in, slow but sure, from his etheric field, from the gathered clairvoyant mona. He had come to the mona with no doubt, the same as he’d sent her the message with no doubt. He had drawn the lines slowly, incanted slowly as he’d sat in their midst. He hadn’t looked toward the door, he hadn’t thought of anything but the binding; if she had walked through the door in that moment, he’d’ve been ready.
Now, he was tired. He had promised himself he wouldn’t collect the grimoires from the window seat or the desk and tuck them away, like a shameful secret. The faint smell of sage still clung to the study; there was the scent of books old and new, the woodsmoke from the hearth, and always ink.
He looked around now at the shelves packed with books, at his reading nook with the cushions that had been Anatole’s, at the sprawling Hessean carpet that had also been Anatole’s. But this place was the closest to him; he’d just that morning folded up the blankets and tucked away the pillows from where he’d slept by the fire.
It was the closest, and the most private.
Ava was back, at least, though they’d not had a chance to convene since either of their trips. He’d meant to, as soon as possible; there was more than just the Shrike to discuss – but the Shrike, thanks to the madame, had made the meeting more emergent.
Emergent. That was the word he had told Rosmilda to write. Yes, yes, he was quite certain; emergent. Did he wish to be the laughingstock of the Biannual Reformist National Convention, with all their Bull Elephant visitors watching? He needed to compare the black and the dark brown wool to the dark red satin for the lining; he was second-guessing his previous order – if he hadn’t, in fact, made a previous order, then surely Ms. Weaver would understand, on account of the hectic season and…
Now he stood, numbly watching the doors to the study, knowing that nowhere he stood, nowhere he sat, nothing he did or did not wear, would lighten the weight of the news. The clock ticked; it tolled, finally, a quarter after the twentieth hour. A short melody sang through the boards, echoed.
Heavy steps on the stairs. He was on his feet right away as the study doors opened.
It wasn’t her, first; he might’ve known it wouldn’t be. “Mr. Morris, Mr. Douglas –”
Morris had propped one door open and held the other, straight-backed and slick-haired as always, expressionless except for the faint amused twitch about his lips. Douglas entered next, hefting a great oblong case without much effort. He was a big man, with kind-set eyes in a broad human face; his chestnut hair was starting to grey at the temples, and most of his expressions disappeared under a bristling beard.
“Sir,” he grunted, “madam,” to someone Tom couldn’t see, behind on the stair. “Where shall I put it?”
He half-gestured, uselessly, to take the case himself. He was standing looking toward the hearth, toward the low table and the chairs, when she finally stepped into the room.
He was almost too occupied to notice. The heavy mahogany desk was stacked with books and papers, and the table by the fire had a pitcher of water and his brazier, his slim black case of chalks. Morris was still holding the door, so he moved to clear the table himself – he tucked the case under one arm; he took the burner and the pitcher to the desk, water sloshing delicately against the glass.
Douglas was moving. “Will this be suitable, Ms. – Weaver?” he asked, reflexively. When he searched for the name, and found Weaver, a spark of something went through him.
He went still, the case still under his arm, one hand gesturing toward the table. He looked up and found the quiet presence by the door, lit warm gold by phosphor.